Five Times John Wishes He Could Forget
by ElvendorkInfinity
Summary: ...and one time he's desperate to remember.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**AN: My first 'Five Times' fiction...came to me while at work. I should get a job that requires more concentration...**

**As always, I hope you enjoy it!**

**Ellie**

As John walks home from school with his head bowed, deliberately avoiding catching his classmates' eyes, he finds himself wishing Ellie Mason wasn't so pretty. Or clever. Or funny. If she was none of these things, John wouldn't be blushing furiously every time he thinks about her, and he wouldn't have gone and made a complete fool of himself in front of what felt like half the school.

People he doesn't even know are giggling as he passes them. Even when he sees those who are ignoring him – whether because they haven't heard or don't care – humiliation and paranoia have him wondering what they're thinking, and hating them for it. Every one of them.

It's all _her_ fault. She just _has_ to make him laugh. She just _has_ to have those wonderful, twinkly eyes. She just _has_ to have that lovely, soft hair.

And she just _has_ to _know_ all of this about herself, because that means that she _knows_ she can do better than awkward little eleven year old John Watson, and there _has_ to be boys older than him, boys her age, who are so much _bigger_ and _stronger_ and _cleverer_ than he is, so that when he finally plucked up the courage to tell her how much he likes her, she _laughed_.

And then she went and told her friends, while John went and hid in the cloakroom with his face burning from embarrassment. And her friends told _their_ friends, and then, _his_ friends found out, and they all thought it was _funny_.

But the worst thing of all is that John still can't stop liking her. He can't stop thinking about the brilliant Ellie Mason...

He wishes he could just forget about her.

**Parents**

Ten years later, when John opens the door and sees the two policemen standing outside, he knows what they're going to say before they do. He doesn't know how, he just does. It's the looks on their faces. It's the guilt in them, and the sorrow, and the _pity_.

It's the way they ask his name, and nod gravely when he replies, like they already know but were hoping they were wrong. It's the way they ask if they can come in, the way they tell him they need to talk to him, and maybe he should sit down, and is there anyone else home?

John knows. But he won't believe it until they tell him.

When they say 'it's about your parents', he's filled with awful dread.

When they say 'there's been an accident', all feeling drains away, and he's left empty, numb.

When they leave, apologising, saying 'we're very sorry for your loss', John knows the details of this afternoon will be etched into his memory forever. He will never forget them.

He wishes he could.

**Harry**

Harry's been drinking for a while. Before now, though, John's always had his parents' help. They've been there. They've managed to talk sense into her when he hasn't been able to. They've told John that he's done all he can. They've been _backup_.

Now they're gone, and Harry is worse than ever. John can't do anything. She won't listen to him, and _God_, can't she see how close he is to being just like her? Can't she see how much he wants to give up, and lose himself, just for a while, just so he can have a _break_ – but he doesn't, and that's the point.

He has to hold on, because she won't. He has to try, because she isn't.

He has to, because he can't bear the thought of his parents' disappointment if he stopped, and because Harry needs him – but he doesn't want her to need him, _he_ needs _her._ He needs _someone_ who can just be there, who can tell him it's okay and who he can believe. He needs an escape. He needs something. Anything.

He's told Harry, over and over again...he's begged her to stop, he's warned her, he's tried to make her see what this is doing, but she won't believe him.

He tries, one last time. He asks her why she's doing this. He asks her to stop. _Please_, please just stop.

He wishes he could forget the look on her face when she slammed the door on his.

**Blood**

He wouldn't have chosen this job if he was squeamish. He wouldn't have chosen it if he didn't already know the risks, and know that sometimes, there would be people he couldn't save. He would never have become a doctor if he was going to break down when he lost a patient. He would never have become a soldier if he'd been afraid of danger.

That doesn't make it any easier, though, in the noise, the sand and the heat. It doesn't make it _easy_ to see someone die. A friend. A comrade. Someone he was supposed to save, someone he _should_ have saved. It doesn't make it any easier to stop trying, because he has tried, he's given _everything_, and he's seen death before, so this time shouldn't be any different.

But the man – the _boy_ – bleeding under his hands – is so young. So brave...just like everyone else here. Just doing his job, like John is trying to do his, doing their best to survive.

So John works, he works harder than he thought it was possible to work, and he's exhausted by the end of it, when someone finally pulls him away and tells him that it's over, he's done all he can, and it's not his fault.

Oh, yes. John's seen death before. He'll see it again. He knows what it looks like, and he will never run from it, because that's not who he is.

But every once in a while, something will push him just that bit too far, and John will wish that he could forget the smell of the _blood_.

**Bullet**

It's pain.

Everything right now is pain. It burns. He bleeds. He might scream, he's not sure. He pleads with a God he isn't even sure exists to let him live, out of instinct. And he fights – he will _always_ fight. He will not give up, not _ever_, no matter what, because it's not in his nature. To give up would be to fail, and he will not fail.

So he battles it.

People praise him.

People congratulate him.

Worst of all, people pity him.

They don't know that he's not doing this out of bravery. He's not doing this to impress anyone. He's not doing this because he _wants_ to. He's doing it because he has to, he can't do anything else.

He won't give in to the nightmares, the memories, he won't listen to them. He won't let his new existence, boring and mundane and _empty_, trudging the streets of London alone, beat him. He'll carry on, because that's what he does.

But he wishes he could forget the pain.

**Sherlock**

When John wakes up, the first thing he realises is that his head hurts.

The second thing he realises is that he is in a hospital.

The third thing he realises is that something very bad has happened.

And the fourth thing, is that he has no idea what that might have been. The headache and the hospital are indicators enough, along with the stiff white bandages that dress his various injuries. But how he got here – where these injuries came from – is a mystery.

The last thing he remembers is...he doesn't know what the last thing he remembers is. Everything is a blur and in the confusion, his memories seem to have been jumbled out of order, so he's not sure which ones are the most recent and which are not.

He focuses on breathing, and cataloguing his injuries. They don't seem too bad, for the most part, but he knows he must have hit his head. Hard.

Next, he tries to open his eyes. Slowly. They're heavy, and don't seem to want to respond to his need to see his surroundings properly, which he can't do with his eyelids half closed.

Finally, _finally_, he manages to force them open. He sees a man standing by his bed.

The man is tall, thin, and pale. His face is concerned. His clothes are dirty and torn, and he has what looks like bits of rubble in his hair. Cuts and bruises litter his face and body.

He looks like he's been in some sort of explosion. Perhaps that was where John got his own injuries?

If so, where was he? And why was he with this man? Who _is_ this man?

He asks.

The man's face changes. He frowns. He tells John not to be ridiculous. Tells him that such jokes are not funny. John is confused.

'I'm sorry,' he says, 'I really don't know who you are...should I?'

John doesn't need to hear the man's reply, he can read it on his face – yes, he should. He _should_. The man's face, his eyes...John doesn't need to know who he is to read the pain there.

John should know this man, should know who he is. But he doesn't, and he can see how much this hurts the stranger.

John wishes, he _wishes_, he could remember.


End file.
